Tulip Petals
by typedamon
Summary: A collection of drabbles, some AU, some canon featuring various characters throughout all five seasons of Fringe.
1. Humanity (1)

Summary: _"He was a human," Peter begins, unable to stop the quiver in his voice. "As faulted as he was brilliant, but a human... a man far greater than you, or I, or anyone."_ Peter Bishop tells his young daughter Etta about the grandfather she will never know.

Tulip Petals  
**HUMANITY (1)**

"Do you mind if I finish up and head out?" When his wife's voice causes him to disengage from the papers that he has so desperately been trying to get through, Peter is grateful for the disruption. He shakes her head, sending a small, secretive smile, one that has only been meant for her for a long time. Although they talk often, usually, Olivia and Peter Bishop are able to communicate just through the looks they share. There is, somehow, some kind of invisible thread that ties them together, connecting their brains. Olivia returns the smile, before casting a glance to an arm chair. Upon it, a bundle of blankets is rising and falling, the movement only slight, but definite enough to be seen. "You want me to take her back? Or are you ok with her here?"

"No!" Peter realises he has answered far too quickly. He lets out an awkward cough, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "No, it's ok. I can drive home with her later. She's only just got to sleep... we probably shouldn't wake her." Despite the fact he has made an attempt to cover his initial panic with nonchalance, he knows it is futile. Olivia falters uncertainly in the doorway, her face a picture of concern. Her intense stare is raking over him. Peter knows it silly, it's his _wife _that is watching him, but in that moment, he feels horribly exposed. That blue gaze is powerful. It burns through the clothes on his back, scorching holes that penetrate through the layers of flesh, muscle, skin and bone. Olivia sees right through him, straight to his core, just like she always has.

But just this once, she lets it go.

With a sad smile, she gives him one last nod before collecting her coat and slipping out the doorway.

The truth is, he doesn't want to be left alone. Not here, not in this place that holds so many painful memories. In the room around him, things have barely seemed to change. It is the same, mismatched, haphazard collection of medical instruments and high technology tools that shouldn't exist but do exist that it's always been. They are scattered everywhere. There is no real order to the lab - things just seem to be abandoned and discarded, as if an unruly herd of pre-school children had gallivanted about the place playing, but their teacher had not returned to clear the mess. There was no order, but at the same time, there was. It was _his_ order.

This was not Peter's lab. It was his father's.

Without him, no matter how many people are assembling in the cluttered room, Peter feels hopelessly alone. Walter Bishop's presence is everywhere and no-where to be found at exactly the same time. There is an unmatchable silence in the air, even when the five or six of them that group together to try and explain the inexplicable are all hypothesizing and predicting, talking over each other all at once. The lab is not the lab without the ridiculous undercurrent of mindless babbling that flowed continuously from Walter Bishop's lab. There was a silence that couldn't be filled, without the yelps of delight at the prospect of a new body being wheeled into the room. It was too mute, too quiet and too depressing without the physical presence of Walter Bishop.

"Daddy?" It is the high-pitched, sweet voice of a five year old girl that provides Peter with salvation, rescuing him before he has a chance to delve head first into a bucket of bittersweet memories. She has emerged from the bundle of blankets on the new armchair (the only change in the lab) dragging herself into a more upright position. Her lids are heavy over her blue eyes, her blonde hair messy and tousled in their pigtails. Peter smiles at her, happy to provide her with a greeting as she wakes from her sleep.

But on seeing her father, the small girl suddenly looks troubled. Her forehead is creasing, her brow furrowing, lips gluing together in a thin line as she simply looks at her father, in an expression startling similar to Olivia's. Of course, Etta did not only inherit her mother's cool intellect, but also an almost otherworldly ability to comprehend that feelings and emotions of the people around her. But she is a child. So _unlike_ Olivia, she does not recognise his need to be left alone. It is a simple, childish question that she asks. "Why do you always look so sad here?"

A simple, childish question... yet one that has answer more complex and painful than Etta could ever comprehend.

Sighing heavily, Peter fully abandons his work. He drops his pen, moving across to the armchair where he dislodges Etta. She squirms in the air where he has lifted her, momentarily annoyed, but soon settles as he drops into the armchair, placing her comfortably on his lap. He is thinking of some kind of excuse to make, one that would ensure Etta would never ask him a question about his emotions in the lab again. But then she turns to look at him, her big eyes seemingly hypnotic. Up close, he can see that they do not merely resemble Olivia's eyes... they _are_ Olivia's eyes. In some lights they are blue, in others they are green. But there is a depth to them, a barely fathomable deepness that holds a sense of _knowing_, a promise of understanding that makes Peter realise that she'd just know if he had lied to her... but more than that, he does not want to lie to his daughter. "Do you remember your grandfather?"

The question seems to catch the child momentarily off-guard. Her mouth slips open a little, her eyes narrowing as if she is squinting into the distance. There is some recognition there, but it's as if the figure that she is seeing is too far away for her to fully engage with it. After a few more lingering seconds, Etta finally shakes her head. "Not really."

Peter nods, a lump forming in his throat. If he could have wished for anything in that moment, it would have been to be able to pull Walter out of God knows where and deliver him straight to his daughter. If anyone should have known Walter, it was Etta. Walter's social etiquette had been somewhat questionable. He had never expressed particularly good people skills, but for some reason, he had found it almost ridiculously easy to bond with children. The amity in his voice in conjunction with his own childlike wonder had connected him with young minds on every level. "I'm sad because I miss him. Very much."

"He used to have a cow, didn't he?" Etta says suddenly, pointing a finger to the empty stall across the room. A heap of old straw is piled in the corner.

"Yes," Peter smiles. "He did."

Etta is throwing looks all over the room, her entire face creasing into an image of concentration. It seemed as if she were _willing_ herself to remember the man that her father had miss. Sometimes, her face smoothed out in a delighted smile. Other times, she stiffened, confused. After five long minutes, all of the trying drained from Etta's expression, leaving her face clear of everything, except a hungry desire. "Tell me about him!" She prompts, jiggling herself on Peter's leg. "Please!"

Again, Peter exhales heavily. He wants to tell her everything about him, but Walter Bishop is such a vibrant, multi-layered being that he doesn't know where he should even begin. Walter was bad, but so invariably good. He was illogically logical in the face of danger, a man that was ultimately driven by one emotion: love. It is the acknowledgement of everything that Walter was and simultaneously wasn't that shows Peter where he should start.

"He was a human," he finally begins, fighting to stop the quiver in his voice. "As faulted as he was brilliant, but a human... and a far greater one than you, or I, or anyone else ever will be."

* * *

A/N: Here is a lovely atmosphere stopper :D

So here is the grand launch of my new Fringe drabble series. I've recently been rewatching all the series (because of course it can be unanimously decided upon that watching Fringe and torturing ourselves with heartbreak of reliving the entire experience is much more important than exams...) & I have just been inspired to write. So these will be the deliverance of my mind ramblings involving Fringe.

As the title of this particular drabble suggests, yes, there will be a part 2.

Yes, it will probably be up soon.

Dedicated to 'chole blu' (HippoPoo on 'ere) because she is an "Exclamation Milk"

LOVE AND PEACE.


	2. Matters of the Heart (1)

Summary: Set during 3x09 "Marionette". Olivia's emotional upheaval at the invasion of her privacy, and her life.

Tulip Petals  
**MATTERS OF THE HEART (1)**

_I need more dreams, and less life._

She closes her eyes, momentarily revelling in the gloriousness of the first sip of her coffee. As ridiculous as it is, she realises just lucky they all are to have the promise of good quality food and drinks at all times. When Olivia opens her eyes, she notices Peter scrutinising her, his brow furrowed, lips slightly parted as if wants to speak. As she raises an eyebrow at him inquiringly, he exhales heavily.

"There's something I need to talk to you about," he begins, his eyes dropping to study the plastic top of his disposable coffee cup. When his eyes lift, they are held with an unspoken apology. "About her."

Olivia's words die in her throat. Uncomfortably, she shifts in her seat, her fingers curling tighter around her coffee, seeking comfort from the warmth that radiates from the liquid inside. After recounting the entire tale to Broyles earlier that morning, she has no desire to even momentarily relive the doppelganger ordeal any time soon. Images of opened mail and rumpled bed sheets flash painfully through her mind, causing her to wince.

Peter seems to be oblivious to her discomfort, or he is ignoring it. From the distressed look in his eyes, Olivia can tell that this is something he has to share. He cannot remain quiet. "I noticed..." Peter pauses, swallowing loudly in the short silence that ensues. The movement is very visible, like he's trying to force the swallow around a lump that is building in his throat. "...changes. Small changes, but they were definitely there. She's..." Again, Peter's voice trails off, leading to a pause. His forehead creases into a frown as he seems to fish for words. A miniscule half smile briefly tugs one side of his mouth upwards. The expression is one familiar to Olivia, and it is enough to turn her innards cold. "She's quicker with a smile and just..." He struggles, trying to vocalise exactly what is on mind. This time, it is Olivia's turn to swallow uneasily. She is positive he is about to say something she'd rather live without knowing. She'd be perfectly content for him to stop talking and change the subject. But in typical Peter fashion, he continues. "I dunno, she's just... less intense, maybe. She said that when she was over there, when she saw her other life," Peter breaks eye contact, once again become engrossed in the sight of his coffee. "She that it made ehr wanna change. To be happier. And I believed her, because that made sense-"

Olivia cuts into his sentence mid-flow, unable to hear the rest of his justification. She understands why he would be confused - she had never really _expected_ anyone to be able to differentiate her from from her doppelganger. What she _doesn't_ understand, however, is why Peter feels obliged to tell her what he's saying. "There was no way for you to know," she reassures him with a smile. "Everything happened so fast, I don't even know how they did it myself. And that's ok." Olivia nods at Peter, smiling. She raises one shoulder in a shrug. "I'm here now."

As soon as the words leave her lips, Olivia realises that she means what she has said. The past is irrelevant. She is back where she belongs. Once again, she is the governor of her own future. But despite her assurance, she can tell that Peter remains unconvinced. He blinks slowly and swallows hard, his gaze flitting about the busy cafeteria, never allowing his eyes to meet her own. When he eventually finds his voice, it is soft and hesitant with worry. "When you asked me to come back to this world with you, you said-"

"-That you belonged with me." Olivia blushes. She knows her inability to acknowledge raw, _true_ emotion is one of her many faults, but she manages a smile regardless. She meant it then. She means it now.

"And so I came back for you. For _us_." Olivia's smile freezes on her face. She remains still, paralysed as she listens to his words. "Then we started seeing each other... I managed to explain away all the differences, all the characteristics that weren't _you_ because I told myself that _we _were different, our relationship was different..."

Peter loses his voice at the precise moment Olivia loses her smile. Inside, she is frozen. The cold is seeping through her skin. Tremendously, she forces herself not to begin shaking. When Peter finally regains his voice, Olivia can hear that he is pleading with her. _Begging_ her to understand. "I thought she was _you_, Olivia, I-"

He breaks off, unable to continue. Horribly his eyes clash against hers. A moment of terrible realisation is passed through them. Olivia involuntarily convulses, the frozen feeling thawing to a heat that is steadily beginning to rise. "Does everyone know?" It is whispered, a voice as weak as her heart.

"I reported everything when I found out who she was." Peter's answer comes rapidly. If there is anything in the world that Olivia can commend him for, it is his honesty. She can tell from the anguish that shows through the cracks of his composure that he is being utterly truthful with her, but Olivia is unable to allow his honest to sink in. It sits in the space between them, hanging in the air.

Peter shakes his head, leaning closer to her across the table. "Olivia, I'm sorry."

Olivia shakes her head, making a futile attempt to dismiss his apology in a way that could be passed off as convincing. But the movement is too rushed and too frantic. She is repulsed by the invasion of privacy, that Fauxlivia has managed to infect and taint a part of her life that should have been closed off limits. "You know, she had a really full life," Olivia speaks quickly, the words tumbling from her lips. She tries to pull herself together, to allign herself into a picture of professional calm and composure, but she is struggling. Although he hasn't meant to harm her at all, Peter has crippled her. In that moment, Olivia wants to be vindictive. She wants to wound him.

"She had a _really_ sweet boyfriend," Olivia shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "And if he hadn't of been out of town... who knows what would have happened."

The minute the words are out in the open, she wants to snatch them back. Peter has recoiled slightly, his expression faltering as the implied meaning settles in. Again he swallows hard, exhaling perhaps a little heavier than he would usually do. _This is Peter,_ she tells herself. _I can't hurt him. _Hastily, she breezes on, trying to correct her spiteful comment. "She had friends, people who loved her, people who risk their lives simply to help her, and they all believed I was her."

Olivia frowns, biting her lower lip before continuing, trying to think of anything even remotely articulate to say. "So, you, um, I-I can understand how-"

"Mr Bishop?" Thankfully, Olivia is saved from floundering for a feasible end to her sentence by the clinically smooth voice of one of the medical staff. She hovers uncertainly at the edge of the table. The undercurrent of tension is blindingly obvious. "Dr Ross is out of surgery now."

"Can you just give us a minute?" Peter appeals for more time, turning away from her, ready to resume the conversation. He is leaning forward staring intently at Olivia.

Flustered, Olivia rapidly shakes her head, stumbling over her words as she hurriedly scrapes her chair back. "Peter, it's fine. We're good."

She stalks away, following the doctor, her blood burning with a combination of fury and grief.

_It's not fine. We're not good._


	3. Positioning

Summary: Very short, very light-hearted fun fic. An argument shared between Peter and Walter regarding the birth of Etta. I guess you could say that this is set in season 4.5... the period of time we didn't see before the world become riddled with Observers.

Tulip Petals  
**POSITIONING**

"I want to be there when the baby is born!" Walter, once again, is stamping his feet. A stick of of red liquorice hangs out the side of his mouth, and it all Astrid Farnsworth can do to stop herself from erupting into a fit of laughter. He looks like an over-grown (albeit somewhat aged and wrinkled) child with his hands planted firmly on his hips, a mutinous expression on his face as he glares full force at his son.

Peter on the other hand, is flushed a pink colour, vaguely embarrassed by his father's stubborn outburst. It has been an argument that Astrid has found herself bearing witness to a few too many times in recent months. The nearer it comes to Olivia's due date, the more frequently it seems to occur. Except this time, Walter has taken it upon himself to cause an unneeded ruckus whilst Philip Broyles stands awkwardly to one-side, having expected to enter the Harvard lab in order to receive information about a corpse they had discovered earlier... but the dead man is lying, forgotten on the stainless steel gurney, grotesque incisions leaving gaping holes in the rotting flesh.

"Walter, you can't be in the actual _room,_" Peter is saying reasonably. Although Peter's patience with Walter is usually limitless, Astrid can see that the man is beginning to become frazzled. She exhales heavily. Usually, by this point, it was Olivia who stepped between the argument, her stern voice hauling the father and son back into reality. But since Olivia had _finally_ been staying away from her work to deal with the ever increasing bump at her stomach, it had fallen to Astrid to keep the paternal problems in check.

"Stop it!" She cuts in, hurrying between the two men. She frowns at Peter, a look meant to scold as she gently takes Walter's arm. It's not the first time that she's acted as a mother hen when Walter has entered full-scale tantrum mode. She's sure as hell it won't be the last time, either. In the least patronising yet most reprimanding voice she can muster"You're supposed to be-"

This time, her interjection is ignored. Walter defiantly twists out of her grip, marching over to where an old cow is snoozing in her stall. He appears to be talking to her, muttering furiously under his breath before he turns around to consult the three members of the Fringe division that are staring at him. When Walter starts to talk, it is through gritted teeth. "Peter!" He snaps, his arms folding tightly across his torso. "May I remind you that as a highly successful _scientist,_ I am _quite_ familiar with human anatomy, both male and-"

"Yes," Peter says abruptly, disrupting his father's flow of speech. "But I think I know Liv a little more than you do, and I assure you, she would be absolutely mortified if you came in the room whilst she was giving birth."

"Peter, I-"

"Wait, Walter!" Peter's words are sharp, causing Walter to flinch back slightly. Peter breathes deeply several times before making a visible effort to remove the abrasiveness from his tone. "I don't mean that you can't be at the _hospital. _I mean that you can wait outside the room until the baby is born, then you can see it, you can hold it, you can sing to it, you can talk to it. Just... _don't_ burst through the door midway through labour."

Walter sighs, clearly not completely happy with this ultimatum, but satisfied nonetheless. As always, in a bizarre change of mood, he rubs his gnarled hands together before turning to Broyles. "Let's take a look at this body! Astrix, get me some gloves!"

Astrid rolls her eyes, a smile creeping across her face.

She has long since given up trying to correct him.


	4. Matters of the Heart (2)

Summary: Set in 3x09 "Marionette".

Tulip Petals  
**MATTERS OF THE HEART (2)**

_I need that dark, in a little more light._

Olivia draws a shaky breath, fighting to steady the uncontrollable shaking of her legs as she steps out of the shower and onto the slippery bathroom tiles. The mirror is steamy with condensation, but Olivia ignores her reflection entirely. She pulls a bathrobe over her naked body, firmly securing it around her waist. She is about to leave the tiny bathroom, but hesitates in the doorway, her fingers poised above the handle. She's terrified to go back into there. Mentally, she shakes herself, pushes the door open, and steps into the main room.

No matter how hard she tries not to, Olivia can't help but pick out the subtle differences about the place. It's messier, that she is accustomed to see it. Unwashed dishes are piled up high on the draining board beside the sink, paperwork left in a mish-mash of a jostled mess on the coffee table, some of the documents sporting brown rings where mugs have been left to sit on top of them. Never has Olivia realised that she had some form of underlying OCD regarding her living arrangements before this point... or maybe, just maybe it's not the fact that it's in a state of disarray. Maybe it's the person who left it that way that is still bothering her.

Olivia marches to the other side of the apartment, hauling her closet doors open. Although there is nobody around, she can't help but feel as if someone is lurking in the shadows, watching her every move. Dressing, she decides, will make her feel less vulnerable. It will make her feel more like _herself. _She's about to reach out to remove a shirt from the rail when she catches sight of herself in the mirrors that are fixed to the backs of the closet doors. Where it is still wet from her shower, her _fringe_ has divided into several thin strands, loose across as her forehead. Feeling the gooseflesh rise on her body, Olivia scrapes the hair away from her forehead, biting down on her lip in an effort to fight back the shivers that she wants to erupt into. She drags her fingers through the rest of her blonde locks, pulling them over one shoulder in the vain hopes that the ridiculous fringe will stop flopping over her forehead. As cool hair hits the back of her neck, a tremor runs through her body as she remembers the ink that they decorated the back of her neck with. Almost desperately, she angles herself in a position where she can just about see the skin.

Where it was once smooth and unmarred, it now sports an amber sun, outlined black.

She wants to rake her nails across it.

She wants to rip and claw at her own skin until the tattoo is shredded away.

Grinding her teeth, Olivia pulls her aways from the reflective glass, staring into her closet. Her clothes are hanging on the rail, a sight that is familiar to her yet entirely foreign at the same time. They smelt different. She had even changed the fabric softener.

She removes a zip up jumper from it's hanger. She holds it in her hands, the fabric feeling _wrong_ beneath her fingers. Then she takes another, bundling the clothes into her arms. Then another. Then another.

Then a wave of fury hits like her a tsunami, and she is drowning in her temper.

She is a hive of activity. She claws animalistically at the corners of her bed sheets. She rips from the mattress, her mind filled with disgusting visions of _him _and _her_ beneath the covers. They are laughing. They are loving. She is living - living a life that doesn't _belong_ to her, one that has been taken by _force_. Olivia practically sprints to the washer, yanking the top off. She is ready to dump every piece of laundry into the spin cycle. But her arms fall to her sides. The washing machine is full to the top.

Olivia's chest rises and falls heavily. She is still for a moment, simply trying to regain control of herself. But then she loses it entirely. Her face creases into a venomous expression. Savagely, she lurches out, ripping the clothes out of the machine. They are landing on the floor around her, falling everywhere, until something that is altogether unfamiliar ends up in her hands. Uncertainly, she pauses, just holding the soft t-shirt. The exact time she chooses to turn it over is the exact time that her throat closes up.

_MIT._

She can't bring herself to carry on.

Broken, she collapses to the floor. Pitifully, she lets herself become overwhelmed by grief, overcome with the tidal wave of emotion that has engulfed her. She closes in on herself, squashing herself in a corner, knees hunched up as her shoulders tremble with guttural sobs, finally forced to fully acknowledge everything that the woman has taken from her.


End file.
